


Cobalt Peacock

by NaturalEvil



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Father/Son Incest, Impregnation, M/M, Mating, Post-DMC 5, Tea, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25831516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaturalEvil/pseuds/NaturalEvil
Summary: Love had never been the strongest word in Vergil's vocabulary. Forgiveness and family had also been so unthinkable as to have been forgotten more than once.But when Nero effortlessly accepts his father into his life after he comes back, Vergil thinks that perhaps he's willing to learn their definitions once again.
Relationships: Kyrie & Nero (Devil May Cry), Nero/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 152





	1. Two for Tea

Devil May Cry was not at all to Vergil’s liking; musky, cloaked in shadows, and ill-kept, he refused to enter and only sneered from the doorway. “A pig wouldn’t degrade itself by residing here,” He snarled as he looked about. 

“C’mon bro, be nice. It’s cozy,” Dante said as he cantered onto the office floors, turning with a smile as he leaned casually against his desk. He was glad to be back in the human world, and even gladder to have Vergil back with him.  _ Just like old times,  _ he wanted to say. 

“If by cozy you mean rancid, then yes, I will agree with you on that,” Vergil rolled his shoulder in discomfort, tightening his fist around Yamato until the palm of his hand turned milk-white.

They were finally back from their holiday in hell, and now Vergil was at a loss as to what to do with himself. He had had enough of Dante, their time together having been sickly sweet but had since grown stale. 

As was the same of when they were children, he could only handle his younger brother in snippets; having had his fill of him since before they had even leapt from the top of the Quilopth.

“Look Verge, if you want to try somewhere else-” Vergil turned to see that Dante was no longer grinning, his gunmetal gray brow knitted in deep thought, his mind and heart at war with one another, as they always were. “We could give your son a call,” 

Vergil’s grip loosened on the weapon at his side, his meticulously kept defenses crumbling to sand at the notion. Son, he handled the word in his head as if it were covered in thorns. But he could not let Dante know this, and simply huffed before turning away. 

“Of course. Go ahead and tell him I’m coming Dante. I need to get my book back, after all.” 

* * *

Vergil had no interest in fighting his son as he had before, that roaring fire having been put out by his younger brother. At this time, he only wished for different company.

‘ _ He’s done well for himself,’  _ Vergil thought as he accepted the delicate cup and saucer from the eager-to-please titian-haired girl. 

“We’re so happy to have you here. Nero’s told me so much about you.” A lie if he had ever heard one, Vergil only nodded and as he eyed the pretty orange brew in his hands, rose petals floating on the bottom, clumping together to form the image of a feather.

“Would you like milk? Or sugar?” He only shook his head but managed to grin at her, though it was a cumbersome performance. He did not bother to say that the use of milk and sugar in tea meant that the leaves were of poor quality, used to cover up lack of genuine care and taste. He instead chose to sip his tea in silence, the feather of leaves shifting until they became something unreadable. 

When Nero finally walked in, Vergil set his cup and saucer down, the leaves settling into the pattern of a heart, indistinct but intact. 

* * *

If Spardas eldest son had been given one hundred chances to guess how he and Nero would spend their time together, he would never have thought that it could be so civil and human.

' _ Perhaps the girl told him to behave'  _ Vergil thought, half-smiling at the image of his son being collared and kept on a too-short leash, whacked on his head with a rolled-up newspaper at every instant where he did so much curl his lip.

Nero would not look at him, keeping his eyes on his sock-covered feet, rosy and pink-cheeked like a child who had just been given a spanking. 

The boy had gone through some change while he was gone, the aggression and hurt from before having morphed into something else, just as a silkworm pupates and learns to take flight as a moth. 

But Nero had grown his wings before Vergil had left him. This change was different. Difficult to decipher and primal, as deep as the water that flows from a broken womb.

Nero moved and had taken Vergil's teacup into his hands, looking as if he was trying to warm his palms on the floral porcelain.

"Nero, I know that you probably don't want me here, bu-"

"Come live with us," 

Vergil was certain he had misheard, but did not dare say anything in response, wondering if his son was setting him up to be trapped, or worse, laughed at. 

He swallowed as he tilted his head to the side, noticing that Nero had not looked up since he had spoken, the edge of his lip curling not in a snarl, but a smile. Vergil watched as Nero downed the last of his tea, misshapen heart and all.

  
  



	2. Guest

Vergil had been a guest there for six days and had yet to entertain any thought of leaving.

He preferred to stay in the background of the small but bustling household. Sitting quietly at the dinner table long after it had been emptied of both food and company, or relaxing on the couch where Nero had decided to sleep during his stay.

He slept in his sons small bed, the sheets and comforter freshly laundered for his stay; the pillows smelling of lilac whenever he laid his head down to rest. It was a smell that he disliked, and preferred the natural musk of the body that laid there before his, and would close his eyes in concentration to get any trace of it from the fabric.

His only son never really tried to speak to him, and Vergil was simply not the kind to initiate conversation, so the two tolerated one another’s presence with the comfort of two cats lounging close together; but not touching.

Vergil watched quietly as Nero did push-ups each morning with a nearly religious zeal, one hundred and fifty, every number gasped out just as his sons pert nose touched the floor. 

Vergil kept his hands neatly folded into his lap, his fingers scratching at his knuckles as he watched the muscles in Nero’s bare back and arms flow. An alluring sight it made, how the wet pallid skin moved with such a seamless ease. His son’s body was defined, taken care of by simple but effective exercises, gorged on red meat and bread.

Vergil’s own body was slender by comparison; hardly feminine but still as lean as veal. He had put all of his faith into Yamato, which he kept at his side at all times. Always sheathed and partially hidden, it could be mistaken for an umbrella or walking stick at a first or even second glance.

His indifferent stare lingered as Nero finished and dried his face with his discarded shirt, standing up to reveal a stomach so sculpted that it made Adonis’ marbled abdominals look like the bloated gut of a glutton. 

His son was showing off to him, (as the way that devils do) as vain as any peacock parading its exquisite tail feathers to a potential mate.

 _Look at me, look at what I have to offer_. Nero said without saying it, his body oily with sweat, half-clothed in pants that could be so easily removed.

Vergil rose and stood in front of his son, noticing how he had to look up to keep eye contact.

Vergil had always been such a greedy soul, ever since he was a child. He had to be born first, the first to see the world and cry.

So of course one kiss was not enough. And Nero, his stubborn masterpiece, opened his mouth like a good boy and obliged. 


	3. Epicure

Nero’s pert nose nuzzled at his father’s cheek as he breathed slowly, a leisurely and delectable sigh so saccharine that it made Vergil dizzy with its sweetness. He opened his mouth for another kiss, slowly, with the desire of a patient man finally accepting a long-awaited gift.

As he wrapped his arms around his sons muscular damp shoulders, Vergil could finally allow himself to be vulnerable. Layers and layers of fear and modesty pulled from his psyche, his id cleansed of grease and filth; all of it broken down by a simple touch like pale blue sunlight. 

Still some of that fright remained. It kept his clothes closed, his hands clasping at the buttons of his shirt; scant pieces of his heart and soul not only guarded, but caged in a prison with broken locks.

Vergil reached up and mussed his own hair, letting it fall disheveled down into his eyes as Nero slid onto his knees, naked human fingers adjusting to every curve and outline of his father’s holy body.

He gasped as his shirt was pushed up, creased in Nero’s milk-white fist. Vergil gasped as his son’s tongue dipped into his navel, deep, as if trying to taste any sustenance of when his father had been in his grandmother’s womb. 

_I carried you in there,_ Vergil thought with an appalling clarity, recollecting how his stomach had swelled to a full-moon outline against his grey cloak the first time he had walked the streets of Fortuna, his wits and memories still about him like a precious gold amulet around his neck.

A fade-to-black sensation came over him as his pants were pulled down his thighs, his hands grabbing blindly at Nero’s short silver hair as his mouth fell open in a quiet rough gasp. Vergil felt everything, losing his will to remain silent as Nero pleasured him with his mouth.

His legs would not stop shaking, his toes curling and twisting into the carpet. He was certain that the speed of Nero’s tongue matched his own pulse, throbbing wild like a heart that was beating for life at the very end of it. 

His buttocks was groped for a few bruising squeezes, Nero’s tongue pushing in between the two soft parts of flesh, damp and flickering. Vergil breathed and writhed, his ankles shaking as they bent inward, the balls of his bare feet aching as he stood up on the tips of his toes.

Nero licked a hot wet stripe up and down, slurping in a vile way that made an uncharacteristic heat warm his father’s pallid skin.

Vergil closed his eyes as his son was up on his feet again, kissing him deeply, tasting his own bodily juices on Nero’s eager wet tongue.

His pants tangled around his ankles, Vergil fell back onto the couch, Nero pinning him down onto the cushion as if he were an animal trying to scramble off to safety, lips on his neck.

Vergil’s breath hitched and sighed as his thighs were pushed apart, closing his eyes as Nero pierced him. Just as his father pierced his mother to make him and his brother, just as he was pierced to create his son.

Sloppy with eagerness as well as inexperience, Nero thrust his hips. He grabbed at Vergil’s hand, clasping their fingers together as he gasped and sighed, spreading his legs further apart, letting Nero go in as deep as he could.

Vergil brought his sons hand to his mouth and kissed each knuckle, then the roughened fingers themselves, as they belonged to the arm that his own heartlessness had taken back before they knew one another. A time when Nero’s selflessness and kind-heartedness had cost him his arm. 

His opening felt raw, the pink flesh turning red, almost hurting as Nero moved inside of him.

He cried out as if he had been struck, gnashing his teeth as a celestial blue claws grabbed hold of his waist and would not let go, cobalt blue feathers fluttering all around as if carried by a breeze.

“Warm,” Vergil whispered into his son’s shoulder as he wrapped his legs around his muscular waist to hold him in. He rolled his hips, trying to pull Nero in deeper, clenching around his throbbing virile member, leeching out every last droplet of cum. “So…warm,” Delirious and kneading his fingers into that naked back, Vergil swore he could feel that endowment taking root, finding its purchase, burrowing somewhere safe deep inside of him.

He writhed and pushed his stomach against Nero’s, hoping that his son could feel it too; the inevitable possibility of what could grow there. Wanting to brand into his son’s mind the image of his body, skin glowing and womb engorged with their damned young.

When he kissed his son again, Vergil sacrificed his non-existent role of a father, and gained instead the title of lover, which he would wear as proudly as a peacock wore its tail feathers.


	4. Little Beast

Vergil kept himself hidden for the remainder of the pregnancy, barefoot and partially clothed in an oversized gray shirt that had been given to him by his son.

‘I suppose history is always damned to repeat itself in one form or another’, he thought slowly with the acidic taste of bitterness building at the back of his throat. He massaged his hands over the full-moon outline of his stomach, the fabric of his gifted shirt a bit taut and uncomfortable against his sweat-laden skin.

He sighed in the seemingly infinite darkness of Nero’s old bedroom, pressing his cheek against the once-white pillow that was made damp and yellow with his sweat, unapologetically disgusting; and yet the stench of it was sickly comforting to the more inhuman parts of his id.

“V-…Vergil?”

A nervous voice, masculine, unmistakable, belonging to the one who had tossed him so carelessly into this predicament. The one who had made his stomach swell and bulge with new life.

He did not answer for a minute, and only fought to steady his breathing as the thing in his stomach twisted at the sound of its father’s voice, perhaps moving due to an instinctual fear, an infant joy, or simply just because.

“Nero come here,” He breathed out weakly like a man on his deathbed, his hair disheveled and lying limp in his eyes, moving his body a little so that his feet were pushed out from underneath the blanket.

Within a moment the mattress dipped with the weight of the younger, and the thing inside of Vergil’s stomach kicked out just once before settling back into a welcomed stillness.

Vergil’s ankles were swollen, so much so that he could hardly bear to stand, and had not left the room since the day before. 

Nero, father to be, brother to be, knew what was expected of him, and gently kneaded at the bloated skin around his mates ankles with two warm and soft human hands. 

The pain inside of Vergil’s stomach seemed to thrum like a violin string that had been plucked, abrupt and wanting to linger before fading off into a silence that never seemed to last.

He knew in his heart that the baby, the child, the little rough beast that slouched towards Bethlehem, could not wait to be born. 


End file.
